


my sleeping beauty

by blackeyedblonde



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Cock Warming, Consensual Somnophilia, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, Husbands, M/M, Oral Sex, Pet Names, Post-Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Tender Sex, Vaginal Sex, oral cockwarming, they just love each other so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:20:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22443220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedblonde/pseuds/blackeyedblonde
Summary: It seems to take some effort, but Hank cracks open a blue eye long enough to meet Connor’s gaze. “Listen,” he says. “I’m not gonna last much longer, but if you wanna…I mean. If I’m right the fuck here, may as well be ripe for the picking, right?”His words come out in a hurry, and Connor senses the tiny jolt of adrenaline hit Hank’s heart from having said them. Something about it excited him—and even if the high won’t last with him barreling towards unconsciousness, the fact that it happened is unmistakable.“You want to have intercourse while you’re sleeping?” Connor asks, earnest words sounding loud in their quiet bedroom.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 16
Kudos: 322





	my sleeping beauty

**Author's Note:**

> This is a requested commission fic for Eli! Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to write for you 😊
> 
> For the peanut gallery: I don’t know if this is ~overtly somnophilia, per se, because Connor is just as turned on by Hank regardless of whether he’s sleeping or awake; this isn’t a kink for him, just another way to engage when he’s feeling needy. In either case, it’s definitely Not predatory. He does, however, have sex with his husband while Hank’s out cold after taking some sleeping pills. They discussed it beforehand and everything is consensual, but if this concept and Hank’s slumbering arousal weirds you out in general—may be best to steer clear.
> 
> Connor’s parts are referred to with words like dick, hole, and folds, but there shouldn’t be any other feminizing language present. Thank you to both Evan and jj for helping me look things over!

  
  
By Connor’s count—watching keenly from the corner of one eye while he drives, carefully and precisely through downtown Detroit—, Hank’s head drops and jerks back up three separate times on the ten-minute trip home from the precinct.

He looks blearily out at the darkened city while rainwater dots the glass, watching the red light they’re sitting under run in scarlet smears down the windshield. He hasn’t had much more than six slapdash hours of sleep over the past two and a half days, and Connor’s beginning to worry for the both of them.

“Thanks for drivin’, baby,” Hank says, reaching up to rub his eyes as the light changes to green. He sounds tired, all the gravelly depth in his voice gone a bit slurred and weary. “Think I’m just about beat the fuck through.”

They both have two days off to look forward to, which Connor doesn’t waste any time with being excited about as much as he is thankful. Even with Hank’s drinking behind them and a better routine altogether, the fact of the matter is…sometimes he just can’t sleep. Turns out no amount of healthier living and bedtime stories from your doting android husband can fix all the lingering ghosts in a man’s life, and when shit at work gets bad, it drives the insomnia nail that much deeper.

Connor is tired, himself, in a way that doesn’t involve bodily fatigue or mental exhaustion. Selfishly, he’s spent most of the past two weeks missing the warmth of Hank’s booming laughter and the passion in his touch, having had to settle for tired smiles and one or two hurried fucks in less-than-ideal places that ended, mostly, with them zipping up and getting back to work.

Connor loves his job and the incredible sense of fulfillment he gets from working cases and bringing people hard-won answers and justice; the thing is, Connor loves his Hank even more.

And so, all he wants for the next two days is to keep Hank well-fed, relaxed, rested, and well within the emotional and physical bounds of arousal needed to fuck Connor to within an inch of his processor’s life. Starting tonight, effective immediately. He’s blocked off his social calendar in preparation.

“Think I’m gonna have to take some of those pills so I can get some shuteye,” Hank says around a yawn that sounds like a disgruntled lion. It’s only six o’clock, but Connor’s fate for the evening suddenly seems decided: when Hank takes his prescription, he sleeps like the dead for a minimum of eight uninterrupted hours and wakes up stiff-limbed and foggy but without having dreamed a lick. “Guess it’s an early one for me tonight.”

“That’s fine,” Connor says with perfect diplomacy, even though his heart sinks as they turn onto the street where they live together now, a different sort of suburb from the canal home Hank had when Connor first met him. “You’ve needed the rest, Hank.” This much is unwaveringly true, and Connor knows it’s important. “It’ll be a good restart so we can have a better day tomorrow.”

Hank doesn’t say anything, but he reaches over and gently squeezes just above Connor’s knee with a broad, strong palm, and leaves it there even as they pull into the driveway. Connor could pinpoint the exact coordinates of Hank’s gold wedding ring burning though his work slacks and into the artificial skin on his thigh from outer space and perhaps even further than that.

“C’mon,” he says, briefly touching the back of Hank’s hand as he turns the car off. “Let’s find something for you to take your medicine with. You shouldn’t go to bed on an empty stomach.”

Hank follows Connor up the front walk like an old dog and leans into him while he waits for Connor to unlock the front door, big and warm and sagging where he stands. He slumps inside and passes a hand over the top of Sumo’s head in greeting before shrugging out of his jacket and boots, already disappeared into the kitchen to find something to drink.

Dinner winds up being a simple stir fry that Connor chops up and Hank makes himself. He insists on seasoning things in odd ways, always adding a pinch of chili powder or a dash of hot sauce or a spoonful of brown sugar to recipes that don’t call for such things—“doctoring it up,” he sometimes says with a cheeky wink in Connor’s direction. None of his flirty kitchen fanfare is present tonight as he stands in his socks in front of the stove and pushes veggies and beef strips around a popping skillet, though he does wrap one free arm around Connor’s waist and bend his face down to kiss the pale skin visible above his collar.

Connor can’t help himself when his synth-skin bleeds away to reveal the satin white underneath. Wanting Hank to touch him and not stop is the main itinerary item overwhelming his HUD, but he knows that’s not in the cards for tonight. Still, he tips his head to the side and indulges himself in the feeling of Hank’s warm, dry mouth and rasp of whiskers against his bare chassis.

“Could fall ‘sleep right here,” Hank murmurs. He’s gradually stopped stirring his dinner in the pan, and Connor feels it when he smiles. “You’d carry me to bed, right?”

Connor’s carried him out of more than just the kitchen in their handful of years together, but he wraps his arms around Hank’s middle and nods anyway. “You know I would.” 

Dinner gets eaten out of a cereal bowl standing there in the kitchen while Sumo eats his own dinner from his dish under the window. Hank takes his pills and knocks them back with a swig of ice water without much fuss, though he does waggle his eyebrows at Connor. He’s so bleary-eyed and tired it hardly translates, but Connor’s long since made a perfect study of every minor muscle on his husband’s face.

“If I can’t operate heavy machinery while under the influence,” Hank quips, “does that mean you’re out of the question too, hot shot?”

Connor laughs and sets Hank’s dish in the sink before grabbing the tail of his shirt. “Don’t get my hopes up,” he says, and then steers them both down the hall to the master bathroom. He helps Hank strip down and then divests himself of his own work clothes, noticing the stark lack of a human scent coming off them as opposed to how Hank smells. They go into the walk-in shower together but don’t linger or fool around—the insomnia medication works fast, sometimes, and it’d be better for Hank to be in bed when it kicks in.

Hank relents and lets Connor put a cream rinse through his hair, standing there like a naked titan under the spray with his head tipped back into Connor’s nimble fingers. When he’s all scrubbed clean and pink from the hot water, they step out and dry off, forgoing most clothes except for a pair of boxers Hank fumbles himself into. Connor, still nude himself, watches them both in the wide vanity mirror while Hank brushes his teeth and swishes Listerine around his mouth, always fascinated by human rituals of preparing to be unconscious for several hours.

The lights dim off and the house is mostly quiet when they crawl into bed. Hank lands on his back like a felled tree and hardly moves beyond that, other than to draw in a deep breath and pull the sheet up over his lower half. He holds out an arm and Connor is drawn in close against his side in an instant, already purring as he drapes a leg over Hank’s thigh.

He kisses Hank’s jaw, the base of his throat, the curve of one lightly freckled shoulder. It’s hard, having what you love and adore in your arms but feeling—maybe like you still need more, the deeper itch under the surface you can’t quite scratch on your own. Connor tries to push away the tiny twinge of lingering frustration and places his hand in the middle of Hank’s chest, palm resting over the cameo of his tattoo. He can feel his heart beating, steady and even.

“I want to make love all day tomorrow,” he says, trying not to sound as intense as he feels even as his LED stutters between scarlet and yellow for a half-second. “You’re not allowed to leave this bed.”

Hank hums, a vaguely distant but deep sound. Connor thinks he might’ve already drifted off into that middling place between wakefulness and sleep, but then he traces a phantom shape between Connor’s shoulder blades with a lazy fingertip. “That a promise or a threat?”

“Both,” Connor says, breath hitching when he gives in to temptation and shallowly ruts against the solid junction between Hank’s hip and thigh. “ _Hank._ ”

“Shh baby, m’right here,” Hank says, trying to be reassuring even though he’s quickly beginning to sound like he’s at the bottom of a well. Connor can sense his respiration slowing and his heartbeat leveling out as the medication’s effect steepens. “You want two fingers or three?”

His hand tries and fails to slip between Connor’s thighs, not quite meeting its intended mark. Connor huffs and takes it in his own grasp, drawing it up between them to kiss Hank’s knuckles. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, crestfallen all the same. “I’ll be alright while you get some rest.”

It seems to take some effort, but Hank cracks open a blue eye long enough to meet Connor’s gaze. “Listen,” he says. “I’m not gonna last much longer, but if you wanna…I mean. If I’m right the fuck here, may as well be ripe for the picking, right?”

His words come out in a hurry, and Connor senses the tiny jolt of adrenaline hit Hank’s heart from having said them. Something about it excited him—and even if the high won’t last with him barreling towards unconsciousness, the fact that it happened is unmistakable.

“You want to have intercourse while you’re sleeping?” Connor asks, earnest words sounding loud in their quiet bedroom. His LED spins like a golden ring at his temple.

Hank squeezes his eyes shut but nods, face warm. “If you can, uh, get things up and _interested_ ,” he says cryptically, “go ahead and knock yourself out. ‘M sure I won’t mind.”

Connor flips through a dozen different scenarios and outcomes in about 1.3 seconds. “How do you know you won’t wake up?” he asks.

Hank smiles, roguish and terribly handsome despite how exhausted he is. When he closes his eyes this time, they likely won’t reopen again for the rest of the night. “Only one way to find out, right?”

Connor sighs to himself, leaning over on one elbow to press a sweet kiss to Hank’s lips. “Go to sleep, Lieutenant,” he says fondly, shaking his head. “I’ll be here.”

In less than two minutes, Hank is out like a light.

Connor moves down the bed to pillow his head on Hank’s middle—indulgent as much as he is curious. Sometimes in the evenings Hank will read aloud from one of his old paperbacks, and Connor will lay just like this and lull blissfully while he listens to Hank and feels strong fingers gently card through his hair. Tonight there’s neither of those things, but he still wants the comfort and closeness of it to help with a reconstruction, if he chooses to take that route. _  
_  
Instead, Connor keeps his cheek pressed there on Hank’s belly for nearly half an hour, sensitive fingers idly tracing the soft inner part of his thigh where his boxers have rucked up. Hank snores lightly, chest rising and falling in the usual gentle rhythm that indicates he has genuinely fallen asleep. Connor eyes focus and unfocus on the wiry thatch of grey hair low on his husband’s abdomen as he thinks, running a background process where he carefully monitors Hank’s pulse and heartbeat.

Despite his divided attention, perfect recordings of Hank’s sleepy words run on a loop through Connor’s head:

_Go ahead and knock yourself out…_

_…I'm right here…_

_…ripe for the picking._

They’ve come a long way together since the beginning of their partnership, and Connor discerns there’s nobody else on the planet who knows him quite like Hank does. The bond he shares with Nines—while incredible, and something he’ll forever be grateful for—is still rooted in the fact that they were created and programmed in each other’s image from similar materials and lines of code. Connor’s bond with Hank is profoundly different precisely because they can’t read each other’s minds by simply touching palms.

When it’s all said and done, the trust and love they’ve forged through all their differences and struggles is what makes Connor truly feel alive.

He splays a hand over Hank’s belly, feeling him breathe, wrinkling his nose to chase away a smile when he hears Hank’s gut grumble under his right ear. Connor traces around the dimple of his navel and the contour of an old, faded scar, and then skims his fingers lower to touch the waistband of his boxers. When he pushes his hand underneath and palms the soft line of Hank’s cock, a static buzz runs up the column of his spine.

Hank’s breathing never changes, though when Connor squeezes the base of his shaft and fondles his balls he makes a soft sound, almost a husky moan but not quite. He shifts in his sleep and Connor immediately freezes, but it’s only so Hank can spread his thighs apart a few more inches. Even in a state of slumber, his body seems to know and welcome Connor’s touch.

It’s easier, then, when he draws Hank’s soft cock through the split in the front of his boxer shorts. Even flaccid it’s heavy and thick in his hand, and Connor can feel his mouth preemptively filling with fluid at the sight alone. He doesn’t want to get up just yet to find any extra lubricant, but this is fine—the familiar heft of Hank’s girth, the warm, silky-softness of his skin here, the sensory delight of tracing the vein that runs all the way from his balls nearly to the rosy tip.

It makes perfect sense, in Connor’s logical mind, to make the next natural step and take Hank into his mouth.

He lets the fat mushroom head rest on the flat of his tongue and curls the manmade muscle around it, feeling his throat bloom and open like a night flower so he can take Hank all the way back to where a human’s oropharynx would begin. His lips stay wrapped around the base as he adjusts to his HUD’s warnings of a foreign object intrusion, still adamant no matter how many times Connor’s disabled them over the years.

The silicone and hyperskin sleeve that comprises his makeshift esophagus gently constricts as he tries to swallow excess fluid, but not yet enough to coax Hank into an erection. The softness of his penis makes this peaceful, in a peculiar way—a sensual and intimate moment, even if Hank isn’t awake to enjoy it in full. Connor lets his eyes fall shut and focuses on nothing but the feeling of his husband’s shaft lodged deep in his throat, the heat and the taste, faintly soapy but with an undercurrent of pleasant musk.

Connor isn’t entirely sure how long he lays there draped between Hank’s thighs, warming his cock with his mouth, a priceless machine designed for cutting edge forensic analysis. That much may have been true once upon a time, printed into a pamphlet and logged into a sprawling technical database—but Connor knows he was _made_ for this. It makes him hum all over with pleasure from the top of his head to the balls of his feet, and in turn his throat squeezes in a sweet, gentle flutter around Hank’s cock.

“Mmm,” Hank breathes out. Connor is keenly hyper-aware of the toes on his husband’s left foot flexing and curling as his heel pushes through the sheets, trying to leverage his groin up for more. Slowly, Connor reads an increase in Hank’s pulse, and then the telltale rush of blood southward as his length begins to twitch and fill.

Connor moans as he feels Hank’s cockhead nudge further into the back of his throat. There’s been a faint twinge building between his legs for some time, but the ache is deep enough now that he can feel slick beginning to seep from his hole and slide along his inner thighs as he rubs them together. Still with Hank in his mouth, Connor reaches down and touches himself, pressing the heel of his hand against his mound as he rubs two fingers around the sensitive head of his throbbing dick.

He comes almost instantly, hips bucking unbidden as he smashes his pelvis down against his palm and the bed to try and hump out his orgasm in a rolling wave. Connor lets out a muffled groan from the vocal box in his throat and thanks his creator—not for the first time—that he doesn’t need to breathe.

With his first climax gone and already an achingly distant memory, Connor feels the prickle of selfishness overtake him. He slowly and carefully draws off Hank’s cock inch by inch, leaving it slick and coated with clear fluid when it finally slips free from between his lips and falls heavily into Connor’s waiting palm. He strokes the shaft of it a few times, slow and languid, and suddenly this new development seems to gain more of Hank’s unwaking attention.

It only takes one word, soft and rasped out through the veil of sleep: “ _Connor._ ”

Connor doesn’t even reach for the lube; as the android in the equation, he doesn’t really need it. He pulls himself up on his knees and feels his hole clenching gently around nothing, making a mess still between his legs. There’s more of a statistical probability of Hank waking if Connor engages in penetrative intercourse with him, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take.

He’s straddled across Hank’s hips within a few seconds, having already drawn the cumbersome boxers down and lined himself up. Connor indulges himself in a few moments of sliding his slick folds along Hank’s shaft, unhurried and gentle, biting his lip to stifle a sharp sound when the flared tip of Hank’s cock drags over his own dick.

It’s so much and still not enough, and Connor wants to feel everything, the languid stretch of being filled and speared on every inch of Hank’s cock. He takes Hank in hand and nudges the head against his own hole, flat belly constricting in anticipation, and then lowers himself down until he’s finally, blissfully seated, flush there in his husband’s lap.

Connor’s head lolls to the side, lips parting open with a soft sound. He immediately feels the heaviness of emotion gathering like a storm in his chest and he doesn’t know why, overwhelmed with how lovely and serene Hank looks when he’s sleeping, how the blood pulsing in his cock is something Connor feels as intimately somewhere in his sacral region as a second heartbeat.

Ruining this would be a sin, but Connor knows he needs to move. Carefully he braces his hands behind himself in the bedding on either side of Hank’s thighs, lifting himself up off his husband’s cock and then back down again with a deliberate slowness that makes Connor’s optics skitter in his skull as they try to roll backwards.

Again, and again, and again—until the wetness leaking from Connor’s hole makes a filthy sound in the quietness of their bedroom. Hank sleeps onward, hard as stone, though his pulse rate has increased from before. His head turns to one side on the pillow and Connor watches him through his haze of flushed arousal, wondering if he’s dreaming about this very thing.

The thought makes saline prickle at the corners of his eyes. He suddenly wants to kiss Hank more than anything, be closer to him than this, hold him and wrap his arms around him. It’s a cumbersome sort of thing, though eventually Connor bows forward until he’s chest to chest with Hank, balancing just enough of his weight on both strong forearms to keep from imposing on his breathing. Hank’s cock is still inside him, but at this angle it’d be nearly impossible to fuck with any real finesse without Hank’s body pistoning up into him from below.

Connor has other ideas.

He leans close and presses their lips together, just a sweet, terribly chaste thing, and can’t bear to pull away. Connor swallows a whine as he eases back just enough to take Hank up to the hilt, smearing his hairy lower belly with slick, and then begins to clench around his hard cock.

As Connor tries to wring Hank’s climax out of him, his thirium pump beats fast and hard enough that he thinks he can hear it even though his movements are slow and cautious. The pace is agonizingly slow and somehow still perfect, and Connor watches the tiny twitches and minute movements of Hank’s eyes behind his lids until he feels heat building inside his lower chassis, and then he tips his face into the crook between his husband’s neck and shoulder and moans, long and low. “ _Hank._ ”

Connor’s still balancing on his forearms when he feels a broad palm settle low in the middle of his back. At first he thinks a fragment of his reconstruction program has broken free to mingle with what’s really happening, and then that hand slides down to cup his ass, fingers exploring lower to touch the stretched place where Hank’s buried deep.

“Con?” he hears, and when Connor looks up he finds two sleepy eyes gazing back at him, foggy but undeniably awake.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Hank rasps, squeezing his eyes shut as his mouth falls open, and Connor clenches around his cock again as he kisses Hank long and steady, sweetly pressing the tip of his tongue to the gap between his two front teeth.

“I love you,” Connor says, because it’s all he feels capable of saying, shuddering as that tightened knot of something heavy unravels in the mechanics behind his sternum. He lets some of his weight sink into Hank as he feels his husband’s knees draw up, feet planted for better leverage. Hank’s movements are still sluggish in a way but entirely deliberate.

“Love you too, baby,” he says, voice rough, smoothing a hand up and down Connor’s spine as he slowly fucks up into him. “You’ve been busy without me, huh?”

Connor tries to rock back to meet each slow thrust, not wanting Hank to go faster so much as he wants him deeper. “Y-you said—“ he tries, dropping his head again to mouth at Hank’s shoulder. “Fuck, Hank, you told me to. _Please._ ”

That makes a laugh rumble in Hank’s chest. “Know what I said,” he tells Connor, bottoming out again between breaths. “I’m just glad I’m here now to enjoy it.”

There’s no hurry in their movement together, only the slow glide of Hank’s cock and the softened grunts and sighs that fall between them, feather-light. The only thing that belies the gentle calmness of the moment is the red glow at Connor’s temple the closer he gets to coming undone, mouth dropped open as he grinds back on Hank’s cock and tries to milk him.

“Easy does it, now,” Hank rasps, reaching between their bellies to rub the pad of his thumb against Connor’s hard little dick. “Almost there, sugar. You gonna come for me?”

Connor can’t say that he already has once tonight because that’s all it takes for his breathing protocol to stop and for release to ignite somewhere deep in his chassis. He gasps and bears down, squeezing Hank’s cock like a heated vice while his cooling fans whir overtime, and all but sags in relief when he feels something snap in Hank’s hips.

“Fuck, Connor, _Jesus,_ ” he hisses, and then there’s that flood of warmth pulsing into his hole as Hank’s cock twitches and fills him up. His breathing is gently labored, a damp pant somewhere against Connor’s temple as his muscles jerk and jolt through the ease of coming back down.

Connor smiles, warm and sated enough for now. He raises his head and kisses the strong tip of Hank’s nose, purring again while he delights in the feeling of Hank softening inside him. “Thank you for joining me, my sleeping beauty.”

“Ngh,” Hank groans, making a face. “I can’t move.”

“I’ll take care of you,” Connor says, nuzzling against Hank’s beard and petting the hair away from his face until he finally feels him slip free. He eases himself up and swings a leg over Hank’s hips like a long-legged cowboy, already leaking pearly cum as he pads into their bathroom and runs the tap.

Hank is nearly gone again as he feels a warm cloth cleaning him off, careful and gentle. He can hear Connor talking to him but he sounds far away, at least until the bed dips on one side and Connor covers them both up before snuggling back in close.

“You still wanna hump like rabbits all day long tomorrow?” Hank asks, slurring it out despite the dopey smile on his face.

“I couldn’t imagine a better use of our day off,” Connor says in his own gentle rasp, dropping a kiss onto Hank’s collarbone. “Good night, my love. See you in the morning.”

It’s a golden promise as good as any, and Hank takes it with him as he finally drifts off into some of the best rest he’s gotten in ages, safe and happy in his husband’s arms.  
  
  
  



End file.
